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She wasn't mitigating trouble; she was courting an obscene amount of it. She ought to have stood her ground and refused him. In fact, she shouldn't have stood anywhere near him. She would have been better off walking away once it was apparent everyone else in her group was dancing. Decent, unmarried women didn't stand on the sidelines conversing with one of the Four Horsemen and they definitely didn't take to the dance floor with one of them. In a matter of minutes she'd managed to do both. She had no excuse. She was not newly come to town, a gullible young miss in the throes of her first Season. She knew better.

And she did not want to do better. It had been her choice from the start. She'd convinced herself there was no harm in idle small talk. After all, she made small talk with viscounts and dukes all the time. But that had been her mistake. Caine Parkhurst was nothing like the Duke of Harlow. The Duke was a gentleman to the bone. Harlow dressed like one, he looked like one. He acted like one.

Caine was something else entirely. He was something wild and untamed, from the messy, ebony waves of his hair to the unorthodox all-black evening clothes relieved only by a single diamond stickpin winking in the folds of a black silk cravat. He looked like the devil incarnate—wicked, sensual, a walking invitation to sin and, to her surprise, it was an invitation something in her was tempted to accept.

Curiosity spurred her hard. Like Eve in the garden, she wanted a taste of what the devil offered, perhaps because he was the antithesis of all she'd come to know since entering society's lists. Tonight, on the sidelines, they'd not made small talk. They'd jousted with words for spears, cool glances and arched brows for shields.

And it had been far more invigorating than discussing the weather in Hampshire with a viscount. Then again, she was coming to believe that everything about Caine Parkhurst was designed to be invigorating to the feminine mind. And she was definitely invigorated. At two inches over six feet and sporting the shoulders of Atlas, he was larger than life. She could go toe to toe with him, but not nose to nose. She was used to looking many men in the eye. Even at her stature of five foot seven inches, rather tall for a woman, she was aware that Caine Parkhurst towered over her, the breadth of him an obvious contrast to the slenderness of her own frame. Beside him, she did not feel too tall, too overpowering. She did not need to cultivate a stoop to accommodate a shorter man. She did not need to worry about daunting a gentleman with her mere presence simply by standing next to him and making him feel less the man.

Caine Parkhurst was breathtakingly impressive, intimidating, intoxicating even and, from the unexpected rush of her pulse as they took to the dance floor, it was absolutely clear why mothers steered their daughters in the opposite direction when he was in the room. Just as it was clear why women of all ages were drawn to him against their better judgement. He smelled deliciously, like the call to adventure all sharp citrus, exotic sandalwood, and rugged masculinity—two things in short supply for a well-bred English woman, which only added to the intrigue of him.

She did not think she was the only woman who wanted to solve that riddle. The complex scent complemented what rumour spoke of him: that here was a man who cared not a fig for rules and propriety, a man who did as he pleased and took what he wanted. A man who had nothing to lose. In that moment, she understood the pull he had over her. He was all she was not. She must always give a care for propriety and it was wearying. Such care eroded one's soul and she was on the brink of losing hers. The small part of her that society had not yet claimed wanted him for herself and all that he represented: freedom. If only for the length of a dance, these moments would be for her.

Then it would be back to reality. Unlike him, she had something to lose—a reputation that had taken a battering recently. She was acutely aware of the consequences of being overlooked by two dukes in two years; first Creighton and now Harlow. It had raised the question: if she was indeed the impeccable example of propriety, why had two dukes passed on her? This evening, if she'd continue to stand there, that question would have extended to asking why a man not as grand as a duke had not taken to the floor with her? People would begin to ask, 'What is wrong with her?' She was in danger of being demoted from a diamond of the first water to wallflower.

Truly, she'd really not had a choice. Refusing Parkhurst's invitation to dance would simply draw more attention than what they were already receiving. Accepting was the lesser of two evils. It wouldn't stop all the talk, though. There would just be different talk. Talk she hoped her mother wouldn't hear about. But it was too late to change her mind now.

They joined Alex Parkhurst's set and Caine made a bow to her as the music began. The dance was a lively scotch reel, which required switching partners, and she was spared the intensity and perhaps the scrutiny that came with dancing solely with him—something that brought a bit of irrational disappointment. Part of her was aware it would have welcomed the scrutiny of those dark eyes. On a positive note, the reel did offer the opportunity to study him in contrast to his more urbane cousin. Both were tall and dark-haired; both had the strong Parkhurst jaw and aristocratic nose. But Alex had none of his cousin's muscular breadth. His was a more elegant, town-fed build whereas Caine was barely leashed virility, wildness caged in a tailored evening coat.

Caine flashed her a smile as he danced past on to his next partner and her knees went unexpectedly weak at the dazzle of that smile, wide, open, honest, his tousled curls flying. Two surprises hit her at once as she moved on to dance with Alex. First, despite his claims to not dancing tonight, Caine was having fun. He liked to dance. It was there in his smile, in the posture of his body, which suddenly seemed less guarded. Second, he was actually good at it, something unusual for a big man, especially one better known for his athletic pursuits. Everyone knew Caine Parkhurst rode like the devil, shot like the devil and boxed like the devil among other skills that were best unnamed in the presence of ladies.